


Perception

by obstinatrix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 05:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17094884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: How Thursday had failed to see this coming, he couldn't fathom, but now he'd clocked it, the thing was as plain as the nose on Morse's freckled face.OR: Thursday spots what's going on between Morse and DeBryn before Morse does -- or does he? A matter of perception.





	Perception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



> Thank you so much for your Yuletide letter, in itself a treasure and a gift! Hi, I love Fred Thursday more than life itself.

Pressed to the edge of boastfulness, Fred Thursday would admit there wasn't much got past him. Dragged up rough in London, he'd seen enough of life's grimy underbelly even before the war swept him out into Italy, with all its grit and gore. Fred Thursday, so they'd said in his old manor, could spot a wrong-un at a hundred paces with his back turned. 

So how he'd failed to see this coming, he couldn't fathom, but now he'd clocked it, the thing was as plain as the nose on Morse's freckled face. 

The content of their conversation wasn’t audible over the comfortable clamour of the pub, but DeBryn’s gestures spoke volumes — not to mention the look Morse was giving the doctor, wide-eyed and rapt as Thursday had never seen him. Thursday had been primed to approach, beer in hand, but now he hung back, considering. 

He’d always wanted a friend for the lad, but he’d had in mind someone like Jim Strange, stolid and dependable as cottage pie who’d show Morse a normal time, darts down the local and double dates at the bingo hall on a Friday night. He’d never thought of DeBryn, with his odd old house too big for him in Summertown and his pale, perceptive eyes. It wasn’t that Thursday didn’t like him so much as that he seemed a different sort, not a copper, but a university man...or worse. 

It didn’t often occur to Thursday that Morse was a university man, too, and the thought made the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. If Morse and DeBryn were birds of a feather in that regard, how else might they fly together? 

The look on Morse’s face… 

Fred had always assumed the doctor was — well, that way — not from anything seen or said, but a feeling based on his manner; his fiercely guarded privacy; his fondness for classical music. Now he thought of Morse’s opera records and wondered if they listened to them together in DeBryn’s too-posh house, and couldn’t place why the idea filled him with anxiety. Thursday had been in the war; he knew men of that kind were people like anyone else, and for the most part he left them to it; certainly turned his back when he could, professionally speaking, thinking there was far worse out there in the dark worth punishing. But he’d never thought it of Morse. Somehow it got in his head that DeBryn might hurt the lad, not mindful enough that his brittle-brass shell hid a deeply vulnerable core. But what could Thursday do about it, in the end? Not stalk over to the doctor’s house and demand to know his intentions, as if he were one of Joanie’s more dubious boyfriends. And anyway, maybe there was nothing in it. 

Thursday told himself firmly it was no part of his business, and tried not to notice the softness at the corner of DeBryn’s mouth as Morse reached over and sneaked a crisp out of the doctor’s open packet. 

Strange was loitering near the bar, chatting to a young lady. Thursday shook himself, straightened his shoulders, and made a beeline for him, pint in hand. Best let the lad make his own mistakes. That was his rule with his children; it made sense he ought to follow it with his bloody bagman. 

Half an hour later, when he let himself glance over under cover of getting another round in, the table was vacant, just the two empty glasses to mark where Morse and DeBryn had been. For the briefest of moments, Thursday contemplated leaving the pub for Morse's flat, just to  _ see  _ if there were lights in the windows, but the impulse passed swiftly. 

Plausible deniability was the backbone of compassionate coppering, he reminded himself. Best not to know, in the end -- for all of them. 

******

"I'm still not much for wine," Morse said a little ruefully, but took the glass from Max's hand. "Afraid I can't tell plonk from pinot." 

"Pinot  _ is  _ plonk," Max said firmly, settling himself and crossing his legs. "And aren't you an Oxford man? One would imagine, after all those years of diligently passing the port to the left and taking snuff with the dons, you'd have acquired a working knowledge of what goes with what." 

Morse wrinkled his nose and laughed. He didn't laugh a lot, Max had noticed, but the frequency seemed to be increasing of late. "Red for beef, white for fish, port for a headache, dessert wine for masochists? That's right, isn't it?" 

"Quite right." Max propped his arm on the back of the settee and eyed Morse thoughtfully. "And as I'm no masochist, contrary to what my working hours might suggest, I've no dessert wine, but do let me know if your tastes differ in that regard. I'd be happy to accommodate." 

A flush bloomed, very barely, but there, under Morse's freckles and Max felt rather smug. If making Morse laugh was pleasing, making him blush was the ultimate goal. Morse like this was so outside of the little hedge of prickles he usually sheathed himself in; he was awkward, but in an entirely different way to his usual, all dropped gaze and no defences. 

"This is fine," Morse mumbled, lifting his glass of red. "Like I say, I've no real preference." 

"I hope we'll help you find one," Max said lightly, watching Morse's face and waiting for the blue eyes to lift again. 

They did, defiantly, as Max had expected. Even when circumstances had made him shy, there was still that iron in Morse, the same edge that sent him gallivanting off into the houses of known murderers with nary a thought for his own safety. Max had never been drawn to recklessness, but Morse's particular brand of it was so earnest and unloved that every part of him yearned to respond. 

"Morse," Max said, careful. After a moment, he set his own glass down on the side table and reached for Morse's, taking it from his unresisting fingers. "If you've really no interest in imbibing any more this evening, you must tell me. I promise I shan't be offended." They were neither of them idiots, but Max knew that the reality of the thing was often very different to the thought of it; Morse had accepted his invitation readily enough, but that didn't mean he didn't now regret it -- and one could never be too careful. His fingers brushed Morse's shoulder. 

Morse swallowed, the movement of it visible in his long pale throat. The low light in Max's front room cast shadows in the open vee of Morse's collar and Max wanted suddenly to put his mouth there, tracing the shapes of the collarbones. Instead, he waited. 

Morse said, "I'll learn." His voice had gone rough, the curl of the vowel and consonant picking up that northwestern edge Morse rarely let slip, but it was firm. He shifted until his knee brushed Max's: an invitation. Morse was making things as easy for Max as his nature permitted, although Max recognised in the angle of his head that he would never close the distance himself. 

Very well, then. Max reached out and set two fingers against the side of Morse's neck, just inside his collar. The heartbeat thrummed fiercely under the skin and Morse's breath caught. Carefully, Max allowed himself to trace with his fingers the path he'd mapped with his eyes, the smooth divot of Morse's sternoclavicular joint and then around to grip the column of Morse's neck, fingers almost at the nape and thumb resting over his larynx. When Morse spoke, Max felt its rumble in his palm. 

"Diagnosis, doctor?" 

His tone was low, the look on his face unreadable. The corners of his mouth threatened a smile, but Max felt suddenly uncertain again. He withdrew his hand, clenching it in his lap. "Hard to be sure," he said. 

A sigh. "Max…"

That made him look up. Max had offered his first name, of course, but Morse had rarely used it, perhaps embarrassed at his own unwillingness, or inability, to return the gesture. Hearing it, then, was unexpected; enough that feeling Morse’s hand curve around the back of his neck seemed almost less so, the second shock blunted by the force of the first. 

Then Morse leaned in — kissed him. His mouth was soft, but in no way questioning, and Max envied his surety of touch, the way his lips pressed in concert with the coaxing grip of his hand. Max closed his eyes despite himself and let his lips part. 

Morse pulled back, too soon, but the look on his face said he knew it. It was a challenge; or an invitation. 

"You want to have more confidence in your abilities, Dr DeBryn,” Morse said. “This one's an open and shut case." 

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Max said, a little breathless, and reached for him again. 

*****

“Morning, Morse,” Thursday said, still doing up his tie as he descended the stairs. Morse was standing in the front hall, looking a little sheepish, but in one piece (not that Thursday had been worrying) and even, Thursday thought, rather chirpy. Morse wasn’t usually one for early bird cheer. “Good one last night?” 

“It was all right, yeah,” Morse said, and smiled. That was another unusual sight before the run to the nick, but Thursday couldn’t say it was unwelcome. He eyed Morse consideringly as Win hove in from the kitchen with his sandwiches. 

It wouldn’t do to make a big show of things. Morse would get suspicious, and then where would they be? But, Thursday had to admit, he liked to see the lad happy. Perhaps he could stand to keep just the one eye on the doctor, rather than a pair of binoculars and a pack of trained dogs at the ready just in case. 

“Good,” he said, hefting his overcoat into place and reaching for the door handle. “Carry it through, then, shall we? A lot of work to do today.” 

He could have sworn Morse smiled at him with all his teeth, a proper one, as they got into the car, but it might have been a trick of the light. Thursday thought they could stand to wait and see.   
  
  
  



End file.
